18
‘ O h, lord.’ The man makes a groaning noise of pure delight.
‘Stop that, please,’ says Janey.
‘Honestly. I think . . . I think this is the best thing that’s happened to me in ages . . . ’
It is a running joke with her friends that, apart from the real sickos, audiology is the only department where people have a really great time.
People really love getting their ear wax removed, it turns out.
Something to do with the hot water, Lish avers.
It reminds them of being washed as babies by their mothers.
Plus, of course, the miraculous and instantaneous improvement.
The heart surgeons and neurologists at the hospital get all the glory, they always reckon, but what gives patients the largest measure of happiness is undoubtedly a toss-up between getting their ears cleaned out and getting their toenails sorted when they can’t reach them.
‘Well, I’d rather they didn’t do the moaning and groaning,’ says Janey. ‘Especially the men. In fact I’d rather they just cleaned their ears properly so my waiting list could go down.’
‘You love it,’ teased Lish.
‘I do not,’ says Janey. ‘Also, it reminds me it’s as close to action as I’ve had in a while.’
Amsan pouts. ‘What about that puppy guy? He’s alright. Bit big.’
‘Ooh, I like a big man,’ says Lish. ‘Something to cling on to.’
‘I agree,’ says Janey. ‘I do too. It’s reassuring. I don’t think I would like someone like Timothée Chalamet. I’d be scared I’d break him.’
‘Yes,’ says Amsan. ‘That is for sure the only thing stopping you and Timothée Chalamet being together.’
‘Well,’ says Janey. ‘I don’t know. Puppy guy . . . he’s nice. But I think he’s a bit sad.’
Milton looks at her. ‘Divorced?’
‘I think so. Or separated, anyway. His wife and daughter don’t live with him.’
Milton frowns. ‘Is he a bad man?’
‘You’re asking me if they’re under the patio?’
‘You are kidding,’ says Amsan. ‘You live in that tiny village and nobody knows the gossip?’
‘It’s a town, not a village,’ says Janey quickly.
‘Come on, someone must know.’
‘Also best you find out now rather than later. About the patio,’ adds Milton.
Janey finds she is perking up, just at the way people are talking about it. Like, why shouldn’t she date him or want to; why wouldn’t she? It’s a perfectly normal thing that might happen.
Then she remembers her imminent birthday, and it brings her back down to earth.
‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ she sighs. ‘I’m an old lady to him.’
‘Isn’t he about your age?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,’ says Janey. ‘His ex-wife – I remember her. Really pretty, and young. He’s tall and he’s got his own teeth and hair and a house – oh, my God, he’s like an endangered species. Of course he’s going to want some lovely juicy thirty-something; he’s a human being.’
Milton frowns. ‘This seems strange.’
‘Milton,’ says Janey, ‘you have to realise how bad it is out there. He literally could have buried his wife and daughter under the patio and women would still be like, well, yeah, but he’s so cute though .’
‘There’s nothing wrong with you,’ says Lish. ‘You look lovely.’
‘I look okay for my age ,’ says Janey, spooning her fat-free yoghurt disconsolately – they’d all started it.
‘That’s not actually the same as being a comfortably-off fifty-something guy with hair.
If he started dating a super-hot thirty-five-year-old everyone would be like, oh, obviously . Whereas if I did . . . ’
‘Timothée is twenty-nine,’ says Amsan.
‘Could you shut up about Timothée?’ says Janey.
‘Don’t talk about him like that, please,’ say Amsan.
‘Okay. Well. Anyway. You get my point. I’m just the middle-aged woman walking past. I’m completely invisible to him.’
‘Maybe he just has to get to know you,’ says Lish.
‘And please,’ says Milton. ‘Find someone who can tell you about whether he has killed his family. If that makes a difference.’
*
As it happens, Janey has to get her hair cut anyway.
Well, she doesn’t really , she does her roots herself – who has three hours to sit down in the middle of the day?
But maybe she will just go. Self-care. To her surprise, Essie has been out that day and the house is basically the way she left it.
Well, thinks Janey, a bit of puppy-cuddling won’t exactly go amiss.
Jean, hairdresser, knitter supreme and local gold standard busybody, beams as she enters the salon, her thickly lashed Liza Minnelli eyes a look she decided to like in 1973 and has seen no need to update since.
‘I never see you!’ she says.
‘I know,’ says Janey. ‘I never seem to have the time. Plus I hate sitting looking at myself in the mirror for an hour.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ says Jean.
Janey picks up a magazine. ‘And I hate the magazines. “How to Make Your Menopause the Best Time Ever”!’
Jean laughs darkly. ‘Ooh, they lie, they lie. But they lie to young women worse. At least we know the truth.’
‘Indeed we do,’ says Janey, putting on the unflattering hairdressing shirt, the wrong way round as always.
Ugh, her neck looks awful. She doesn’t know why; it’s not as though she’s creased it up by nodding yes yes yes to all the amazing things life has offered her. ‘It doesn’t stop us dreaming, though.’
They both look at a picture of Jennifer Lopez looking incredible on a yacht.
‘She’s probably miserable, right?’ says Jean.
‘Probably,’ says Janey, sighing.
‘Want a Jammy Dodger with your cappuccino?’
‘ Yes ,’ says Janey resoundingly. ‘Then I would like you to make me look like Jennifer Lopez. Or if that is no use I will settle for Jennifer Aniston.’
‘How about you look like a lovely version of yourself?’
‘What, you’re going to make me twenty-two?’
‘Did you think you were lovely at twenty-two?’
‘No,’ says Janey reflectively. ‘I thought my thighs were too big for me to ever be loved. That is the one thing young people have right now: liking big thighs.’
‘Yes, and all they had to lose was the housing ladder, job security and cheap nursery places,’ says Jean, expertly pulling over the dye. ‘I’m going to mix you up something honey-like in strands and cut shorter for body.’
‘Okay,’ says Janey. ‘Jennifer Aniston, right? Nothing that screams “Minor Stand-in Royal”.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ says Jean, whose own hair is a jet black not found in nature and backcombed towards the sky. She also knits all her own clothes, favouring a batwing design last seen in about 1986, so, you know, you really have to make triple sure she understands.
‘So,’ says Janey, as faux -casual as she can make it. ‘I was just wondering . . . you know the guy who was at the quiz . . . ’
‘You were hanging out with Lowell Thomas at the quiz!’ says Jean. ‘We all noticed. Good for you! He never goes out, I don’t think I’ve seen him for a long time.’
‘Why?’ says Janey. ‘Did he bury his wife under the patio? Has he been seen buying a lot of spades and stuff?’
‘No, but she definitely left him, though,’ says Jean. ‘Took the lass as well.’
‘Why?’
Jean shrugged. ‘Dunno; they didn’t live here very long. Bought the old schoolhouse as a fixer-upper, I think – not sure what they did with it. I’m surprised he’s even still here; I haven’t seen him in so long.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder who’s cutting his hair?’
‘Nobody, by the looks of him,’ says Janey, remembering the thick mass of it.
‘Why? You like him?’
‘I don’t like anyone,’ says Janey. ‘I think I’ve frozen up from the waist down. Apart from having to pee in the middle of the night.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ says Jean, who is dating the retired head of the tiny airline, so is feeling very proud of herself. ‘There’s years in you yet!’
‘Um, thanks?’ says Janey.
‘And it’s never too late.’ Jean smiles to herself, and Janey feels both a little jealous and a tiny bit hopeful.
Jean starts tearing up the foils.
‘Think Jennifer Aniston,’ orders Janey.
‘Yeah, she’s single too,’ says Jean.