Chapter 11
11
NOTHING BUT A HOUND DOG
If sixteen-year-old me was sitting here beside me in this room right now, there is so much I’d want to say to her. I’d tell her to be nicer to her mother for a start. And let her know than neither forty-six or forty-seven is old, thank you very much. I might even tell her that, in my experience thus far, snogging boys is more trouble than it’s worth. Although that might send her into a depression cycle that could negatively affect the trajectory of her life – and God knows her life isn’t jetting off to a happy-ever-after ending anyway.
Ultimately though, I’d apologise to the young Becki for letting her down so badly. It was up to me, after all, to carry the baton of her hopes and dreams forward and live the incredible life she’d imagined for herself.
Instead, what have I achieved? I am a divorcee, and have not so much as met Fox Mulder, never mind married him. I do not write for a major glossy magazine and nor have I ever done so. My career has only reached the dizzying heights of copy writing for a B2B marketer, where I spend my days writing and rewriting the same articles, just putting a slightly different spin on them depending on who our latest client is. It does not excite me or make me eager to get to my desk each morning. There are few, if any, perks outside of gifted branded mugs and pens from our clients. Although I did once get a really good golf umbrella which has been a life-saver on dog walks.
It’s certainly not on a par, however, with sitting on the sidelines at London Fashion Week or writing a pithy monthly column à la Carrie Bradshaw.
I dare say Ms Bradshaw would have a stroke if she poked her head in my wardrobe and tried to find inspiration from my shoe collection. I doubt she ever had cause to pop her head into Matalan to pick up a new pair of heels before a night out, or ever whooped with joy at grabbing a pair of shoes for just ￡3 in the Primark sale.
As for teen me’s ambitious plans to travel the world? I’d let myself down on that score too. Yes, I’ve been on a few holidays, none of which could ever be described as particularly inspiring. I’ve been to Spain and Portugal a handful of times, enjoying the best all-inclusive family fun offerings our budget would allow. I’ve even been for a week in a beautiful but absolutely arctic cottage in the Scottish Highlands, but aside from the cold, there really wasn’t that much to write about. Scenery? Lovely. House? Freezing. Too remote to hear the lovely lilt of the Scottish accent half as much as I would’ve liked. The wine was good. The end.
I’ve never climbed a mountain – not even a small one like Mount Errigal in Donegal – or driven along Route 66. I experience ‘the fear’ driving on the M2 into Belfast, which is one of only a smattering of motorways that exist in Northern Ireland. Any road with more than two lanes going in each direction gets my IBS gurgling. I have sworn at my satnav much too often for comfort as I found myself trying to navigate four lanes of traffic to turn right only to be told to make a U-turn if possible.
It is rarely possible.
My world, and my life, is therefore relatively small. It’s not much bigger than my own mother’s has been if I really think about it. I’ve always put the grand adventures on the long finger. I’ll do them when the boys have gone to university. I’ll do them when I’ve lost a bit of weight. I’ll do them when I can afford to take some extra holiday time. I’ve consoled myself all these years with the notion I have time to do things. But I’m not sure that I do any more. More and more I watch TV and there are adults on my screen who tell me they were born in the year I left school and I wonder how, in all that is under God, that is even possible. I’ve noticed that I’m slipping into that invisible stage of life that only a middle-aged woman can truly recognise. Too old to be noticed in the street, too young to be offered a seat on the bus. If middle-aged women were a colour, we’d be beige. Or worse still, greige. The kind of fad colour that everyone loves for a while and then gets bored of seeing everywhere so they just paint us out. Replace us with someone fresher and bolder.
I feel sad as I snuggle down under my covers, wishing I’d left reading the letter until morning. Nothing ever seems as bleak in the morning – not even the wistful witterings of a former incarnation of myself when compared with how my life has actually panned out.
I hope that Laura and Niamh have kept their own missives unopened. Today has been tough enough.
‘I’m not sure I’m a fan of this being a grown up carry on,’ I whisper into Daniel’s ear as he curls his body against mine. I feel his paw touch my arm and try to convince myself it’s his way of providing a reassuring hug. Chances are he just wants me to get out of the bed altogether so he can claim it all for himself, but I pretend not to be wise to his carry on and just give him an extra little hug back.
Nope, sixteen-year-old me definitely did not envisage that my only nocturnal companion at forty-six would be a dog with boundary issues.