Chapter Nine
By seven o’clock that evening I’m feeling so much more with it.
A bath and a fresh change of clothes make all the difference, don’t they?
OK, so it’s probably got a lot more to do with this Jack Daniels and Coke, I muse, crunching on a mouthful of ice, but still, I feel loads better.
I’m downstairs in the hotel bar getting to know everyone. Stella is right, everyone on the tour is a lot older than me. But whereas I was assuming this would mean lots of cosy chats about knitting patterns and cupcake recipes with a bunch of old dears, I’m fast realising I was mistaken.
‘. . . so I joined an online dating site after the divorce and that’s how I met Sebastian,’ announces Hilary, a local magistrate who recently retired from her post as the partner of a top legal firm in London.
‘We’ve been together six months and he’s like a breath of fresh air.
’ She smiles delightedly and takes a sip of her red wine.
Wow. Internet dating? At her age? I’m impressed.
‘Although my sons aren’t too happy.’
‘Oh, is it a protective thing?’ I ask politely. ‘I know girls are like that with their fathers.’
‘No, I think it’s because Sebastian is younger,’ she says, heaving a sigh. ‘They have a bit of a problem with it.’
‘But why? Lots of women date younger guys these days,’ I cry supportively.
‘No, I mean younger than my sons.’
Close your mouth, Emily.
‘So he’s twenty-five years younger than me. So what?’ continues Hilary. ‘Once you get to my age, you don’t care what people think any more.’
‘Absolutely,’ I manage to croak. ‘So what!’
By the time I’ve finished my second Jack and Coke, I’ve undergone something of a revelation.
Older, I’ve discovered, certainly doesn’t mean old.
In fact, I feel quite embarrassed. What was I thinking?
I don’t know whether it’s the fault of TV, movies and magazines, but for some reason all this time I’ve been under the impression that it’s my age group that are having the fun, interesting lives.
Go grey and everything stops. It’s like the menopause is some kind of biological wall – and who wants to be on the wrong side?
Only now I’m no longer sure which is the wrong side.
‘I’ve been painting all my life but only started teaching when the children left home. I’m doing an artist-led retreat to Provence, next year,’ beams Rupinda. ‘You must come.’
A painting retreat in the south of France? How amazing.
‘Umm . . . yes, I’d love to,’ I reply distractedly.
Except of course I know I’ll never be able to take the time off work.
Unlike Enid, a sprightly seventy-year-old with salt-and-pepper hair who’s just bought a VW camper van with her husband and is planning to spend six months next year touring Europe. Or Marion, a widow, who makes all this lovely chunky silver jewellery and has her own website.
In fact, if anyone’s staying home in their bathrobe and slippers, it’s more likely to be me, I realise, taking Marion’s business card and feeling secretly disappointed nobody wants to talk about cupcake recipes.
I love cupcakes.
By the time dinner is served I’ve got to know everyone a bit better.
Everyone apart from Spike Hargreaves, that is.
Him, I spend all evening avoiding like the plague.
I duck into the washroom when I spy him walking towards me down the hallway; I strike up a conversation about ‘women’s troubles’ with Enid and Rupinda when he tries to mingle at the bar.
And now I’ve seated myself as far away as possible at the dinner table and have suddenly turned stone-deaf when he asks me to pass him the braised carrots.
Instead, I pick up the dish and calmly help myself to the last of them.
He shoots me a murderous look.
I respond by smiling innocently, piercing a braised carrot with my fork and casually taking a bite.
He’s a bully and if he thinks he can go around all week insulting me, he’s got another thing coming. Two can play at his game. And feeling his eyes boring into me, I finish off the carrots.
I wouldn’t mind, but I hate carrots.
After dinner we’re all pretty exhausted. It’s been a long day, and following several rounds of yummy wafer-thin mints called After Eights and more goodnights than The Waltons, everyone turns in.
Except I’m not tired. Not even slightly.
After my earlier exhaustion I’m now wide-awake and raring to go.
It’s the jet lag. Back in New York it’s only three thirty in the afternoon, so the last thing I want to do is go to bed.
This is my first night in England. I want to go out, explore my surroundings, be a complete tourist. OK, so it’s eight thirty at night and I’m in the middle of the countryside, but there must be something to do around here.
I glance around the dining room, empty but for a tableful of black After Eight wrappers and a grandfather clock whose rhythmic ticking is the only thing breaking the silence. Then I have a brainwave. Of course. Ye olde village pub.
I feel a buzz of excitement.
It’s only, like, a ten-minute walk into the village.
I can go get a drink. Meet the locals . .
. I feel my confidence wobble at the thought of going alone, but quickly pull myself together and start making my way towards the lobby.
It’ll be fine. I’m sure everyone will be super friendly and welcoming, I tell myself firmly.
Though it would be nice to go with someone.
‘It’s your auntie here, just ringing to say hello . . .’
Hearing a quiet voice coming from the far corner, I look over and see a figure hunched over the payphone. It’s Maeve.
‘. . . but you must be out again. OK, well, I’ll try you again tomorrow.
Bye for now.’ Blowing kisses down the phone, she places the receiver on the cradle.
For a moment she remains very still, her hand resting on the phone, her face incredibly sad.
She appears deep in thought. Then, seeming to sense something, she looks up and sees me.
‘Oh, hello . . .’ she says, pulling together the edges of her cardigan and smiling self-consciously. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘I was just going to grab my coat,’ I explain, gesturing upstairs. ‘I thought I’d take a walk. Check out the village pub.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She nods.
There’s a pause, and I wonder if I should invite her.
I don’t really want to, but it seems only polite.
I mean, she seems nice and everything; I just wouldn’t really know what to say to her as we don’t have anything in common.
Well, apart from the fact we’re both single, I think, noticing her empty ring finger.
Earlier, at the meet and greet, I tried to talk to her, but she barely said two words before going to sit by herself on the sofa.
Saying that, it’s mean-spirited not to ask.
And I’m sure she won’t want to come, anyway.
‘Would you like to join me for a drink?’
There. At least now I’ve asked.
‘Oh, no,’ she answers hurriedly, recoiling back into her turtle-neck sweater. ‘No, I don’t think so . . . But thank you.’
See.
‘Well, goodnight, then.’ I nod, and continue on to the staircase.
I’m halfway up when I hear: ‘It’s Emily, isn’t it?’
I turn and see Maeve standing at the bottom wringing her hands. ‘I was just wondering . . .’ she says nervously, ‘. . . about that drink.’
For a split-second I feel a clunk of regret, but quickly squash it.
‘You’ve changed your mind?’ I smile warmly.
Immediately her face relaxes. ‘Well, a sherry would be nice.’
‘Cool,’ I reply.
So this is how I’m going to spend my first night in England. Me and Maeve, grabbing a sherry or two at the local pub. Talk about girls gone wild, I think glumly.
And then, quite unexpectedly, a giggle rises in my throat.
If Stella could see me now, she’d pee her pants.
There she is living it up in a bikini on a tequila-soaked beach in Mexico, and here’s me in my old sweater hanging out with a bunch of senior citizens in the middle of the English countryside.
Covering my mouth, I try to smother another giggle. But it’s just too funny. Even more so because, given the choice, I’d still rather be going to the pub with Maeve than doing the conga with a bunch of drunk college boys.
Maeve’s looking at me with a puzzled expression, and I throw her a big grin. ‘I’ll just go grab my coat.’
Maybe Stella is right. Maybe I am a kook.
Outside, the temperature has dropped dramatically and despite my layers of thick coat, woolly hat and mohair scarf, there’s an icy wind blowing that cuts right to the bone.
We set off at a brisk pace to try to keep warm.
The ground is covered in a layer of white frost and the gravel makes a satisfying crunching noise as we head off down the driveway.
For a while we don’t say anything and it’s just the noise of our footsteps, first on the gravel, then the asphalt of the sidewalk and finally the cobbles of the street.
We walk side by side, clouds of white breath punctuating the darkness of the night.
Thankfully, I had the foresight to borrow a flashlight from the front desk as it’s dark.
Not city dark, like in New York, where the night-time skies glow marshmallow pink.
Instead, overhead is an inky blackness, dotted only with millions of glittering pinpricks.
‘So what’s New York like?’ asks Maeve, after we’ve been walking in silence for at least five minutes.
I turn to look at her but it’s so dark I can’t see her face. ‘Have you never been?’
‘No, I’ve never been to America,’ she sighs. ‘I’ve not been anywhere, really. Apart from a couple of trips to London when I was a lot younger. And I went to Paris once.’ She gives an embarrassed laugh. ‘I’m afraid I’m very boring.’
‘You’re doing this book tour,’ I point out. ‘That’s not boring.’
Having reached the edge of the village, we’re under the street lamps now and I see her absorb this. ‘Aye, I guess you’re right.’ She nods and gives a small smile.
‘And we’re going to the pub, and that’s not going to be boring,’ I continue, trying to buoy her up. Despite my initial reservations, I’m really beginning to like Maeve. There’s something about her, something more than you see on first impressions, a silent appreciation for things, a quiet dignity.
‘I’m afraid I must warn you, I’m not very good company—’ she begins apologising, but I cut her off.
‘Nonsense,’ I admonish. ‘Where did you get that idea?’
I suddenly feel very protective of Maeve. God knows what happened to wreck her self-esteem, but it must have been something pretty bad. She’s just so down on herself the whole time.
Maeve throws me a grateful look. ‘You’d never guess, but I used to be the life and soul before . . .’
‘Before what?’ I ask, as she trails off.
She hesitates, as if battling with something inside of her, then says flippantly, ‘Before I got old,’ and smiles.
And that’s the other thing about Maeve. She can’t tell fibs either.
We continue walking. Ahead of us we can now see the pub.
All lit up, it’s wrapped in ivy that’s turned deepest red, like a great big Christmas present, and high above the door swings a sign that reads, ‘Ye Olde King’s Head’.
It looks so inviting – a snug refuge from the prickling cold of the night – and as we grow closer I can almost smell its beery warmth.
‘It’s nothing like this.’
‘Eh?’
‘New York,’ I explain, turning to Maeve. ‘You asked me what it was like.’ I pause, trying to work out how to describe it, then give up. ‘It’s a million different things to a million different people. You should go experience it for yourself.’
‘Aye, I’d love to,’ she says dreamily, her eyes bright behind her glasses.
And for a brief moment it’s as if I can see a real spark inside Maeve, the spark of a young girl, the spark of someone with big dreams and possibilities.
‘Maybe if I was younger, if I had my time again, eh?’
But now it’s gone again, and she’s got that resigned look back on her face.
It’s almost as if she’s determined to put herself down, not to get her hopes up.
I wonder why? What’s she so scared of? What could have happened to Maeve to make her give up on everything?
To leave her with zero self-esteem. To make her so goddamn sad?
But of course I can’t ask her, can I? I’ve barely known her two minutes. And anyway, it’s none of my business, is it? And reaching for the handle, I push open the wooden door and we go inside.